“What we have been. 'I feel it in my bones,' as Mrs. Crossley says. Polly, I've wasted my life.” “As how?” “Never mind how. I feel it. I want to be a Power before I die.” “Be a Power then. You've wits enough for anything--and beauty?” Mrs. Hauksbee pointed a teaspoon straight at her hostess. “Polly, if you heap compliments on me like this, I shall cease to believe that you're a woman. Tell me how I am to be a Power.” “Inform The Mussuck that he is the most fascinating and slimmest man in Asia, and he'll tell you anything and everything you please.” “Bother The Mussuck! I mean an intellectual Power--not a gas-power. Polly, I'm going to start a salon.” Mrs. Mallowe turned lazily on the sofa and rested her head on her hand. “Hear the words of the Preacher, the son of Baruch,” she said. “Will you talk sensibly?” “I will, dear, for I see that you are going to make a mistake.” “I never made a mistake in my life at least, never one that I couldn't explain away afterward.” “Going to make a mistake,” went on Mrs. Mallowe, composedly. “It is impossible to start a salon in Simla. A bar would be much more to the point.” “Perhaps, but why? It seems so easy.” “Just what makes it so difficult. How many clever women are there in Simla?” “Myself and yourself,” said Mrs. Hauksbee, without a moment's hesitation. “Modest woman! Mrs. Feardon would thank you for that. And how many clever men?” “Oh--er--hundreds,” said Mrs. Hauksbee, vaguely. “What a fatal blunder! Not one. They are all bespoke of the Government. Take my husband, for instance. Jack was a clever man, though I say so who shouldn't. Government has eaten him up. All his ideas and powers of conversation--he really used to be a good talker, even to his wife, in the old days--are taken from him by this--this kitchen-sink of a Government. That's the case with every man up here who is at work. I don't suppose a Russian convict under the knout is able to amuse the rest of his gang; and all our men-folk here are gilded convicts.” “But there are scores--” “I know what you're going to say. Scores of idle men up on leave. I admit it, but they are all of two objectionable sets, The Civilian who'd be delightful if he had the military man's knowledge of the world and style, and the military man who'd be adorable if lie had the Civilian's culture.” “Detestable word! Have Civilians Culchaw? I never studied the breed deeply.” “Don't make fun of Jack's service. Yes. They're like the teapots in the Lakka Bazar--good material but not polished. They can't help themselves, poor dears. A Civilian only begins to be tolerable after he has knocked about the world for fifteen years.” “And a military man?” “When he has had the same amount of service. The young of both species are horrible. You would have scores of them in your salon.”